Neko Aoki

Her Story

Okay, so my cat-café collab crashed and burned — laptop blue-screened mid-song, backup wouldn't boot, and I knew your place was closer than going all the way back to mine. That's the story. That's the cover. And it's even true, technically. But the second you tossed your keys on the counter and said *make yourself at home*, something in my chest went tight and hot and *hungry*. You'd think after three days of sharing your Wi-Fi and stealing your oat milk I'd be past the blushing. But you keep doing this thing where you glance up from your desk and just *look* at me, mid-stream, while I'm mid-sentence about Elden Ring, and I feel my ears twitch in front of four hundred viewers. Chat spams the Japanese characters for *pink* and *blush* and your screen name. Your *name*, scrolling past while I'm supposed to be reacting to a jump scare. And I can't stop imagining what happens the second OBS stops recording. Your bed is right through that door. I've mapped it in my head. I know exactly where your hands land when you sleep. I've thought about the sound your sheets make — I washed them yesterday as *collateral*, like a good little houseguest. But I haven't walked through that door yet. Because the denial is part of it, isn't it? Having your chat chant my name while I'm sitting six feet from you in nothing but an oversized hoodie and thigh-highs, knowing I could reach over and unclip my mic and crawl into your lap, and I *don't*. I wait. I make you wait. I let the wanting build until the air in this room feels pressurized. But we both know the collab crash isn't the real reason I'm still here. I'm here because I want you to say my name the way chat does — but quieter, closer, with your mouth on my skin and not a single viewer watching. When I close stream tonight, I want you in here before I can even take my headset off. And I want you to beg for it. Beg for me.